


Centripetal

by Troubled_Soul



Series: The Universe by You & Me [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Fix-It, In John's perspective anyway, John-centric, M/M, Mycroft being Weird, Parental Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, The solar system - Freeform, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:39:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3694307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Troubled_Soul/pseuds/Troubled_Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He saw why he hated the feeling of doubt, the feeling of uncertainty. But he couldn't help but feel it. Because Sherlock was Sherlock, egoistic, arrogant and blatantly rude; was he really capable of feeling? Was he really capable of caring for someone else the way others were, the way he did?</p><p>Once the doubt was known, it kept growing, so he ran away before he learnt the answer. In case he was right. But he'd never realised just how much his life revolved around Sherlock Holmes. And despite that lingering doubt, John Watson learns that he's stuck in orbit, and he doesn't want to leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Centripetal

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know whose side of the story I liked writing better, they were both pretty fun. I think John's is a little more realistic, canonically, but I think it's nice to think that they both would seize to function properly should they break up. In this AU anyway, because they're both romantic saps. Also, I've changed Sherlock's ending to align with this one because I thought it was a little to abrupt...
> 
> Hope you had a happy Easter everybody!
> 
> **Songs**
> 
> John-centric-  
> [Out of the Woods](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_Fne6R-9Ws)\- Taylor Swift (yeah, I know)  
> [Long Gone and Moved On](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SS0ZwnRKJA8)\- The Script  
> [Panic Cord](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LLdTcr98fSs)\- Gabrielle Aplin (It works, I guess)
> 
> General (so the both of them)-  
> [Scarecrow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S8R8oATk7NU)\- Alex & Sierra  
> [Never Leave Me Again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DwtSZFO4Mzw)\- Opshop  
> [Break Even](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzCLLHscMOw)\- The Script  
> [Stay with Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-rC8RRXcfeo)\- Sam Smith (BET YOU DIDN'T SEE THAT ONE COMING HUH? No, of course you did)

"... I think we should break up..." 

They were standing in the middle of an empty street, in the middle of the night, covered in sweat with adrenaline pumping through their veins. John wished he could take the words back but he didn't. He chose not to. He couldn't. Sherlock's face conveyed no emotions; he just blinked, and even that didn't say anything. John gazed into his eyes with concern, but didn't break away.

"... I know." Sherlock told him quietly. Because he had known, of course he'd known.

Silence filled the gaps where Sherlock should be asking why but he figured that he could probably deduce why. So John can understand why he stayed silent. And John wasn't really sure he'd be able to speak without his voice cracking, without breaking down. He knew this. He's known that he was going to expect this but... Even so, John couldn't say he was prepared for it. In his chest, an aching began to permeate throughout him, powerful and vehement. Though he wouldn't, didn't let it show. He thought of it as unfair that Sherlock didn't have to go through this, because he knew that this was going to happen, and obviously wasn't feeling whatever he was feeling.

"... I'm sorry..." John apologised genuinely, quietly. He's determined to let this situation take its path but even still, it does nothing to soothe his uncertain mind.

"It's fine, John," Sherlock said tersely, giving him a quick lop-sided smile which John knew wasn't real. "It's always been fine."

He smiled back, cautiously holding out his hand. "... Still friends?"

Sherlock glanced in the space between them, at John's lone hand in the gap, and then back to his face. He took John's hand into his own.

"Of course."

\---

He moved out thirteen days after, unable to stand being in such a close vicinity with him, having to hide so often. So he lied when he said that 'this is for the best' and ran out the door with everything he had.

Sherlock didn't even try stop him, and that made John's heart break a little bit more.

He cried himself to sleep most nights. Alone in the deathly silence of his own flat.

\---

Even if they'd both said they were still friends, they never saw each other after John moved out of 221B. They carried on with their lives; life moved along and they (John grudgingly) moved with it. The gap had continued to grow between them, pushing them further and further away from each other until they were practically nothing. The texts on his phone from Sherlock kept gaining weeks with no replies. So they both reverted to who they once were when they weren't together, as a couple and in general. Both went back to what they were and always had been doing. John had desperately tried to not think about it, hoping it would help. He hadn't heard from the other man, much less seen him, but John guessed he was okay. Seeming he was the one who was a sociopath, he didn't really care, had he ever? John liked to think neither of them had been affected emotionally. Majorly affected, anyway.

And John knew that it wasn't that it hadn't been working, it's just that they thought that maybe they weren't right together. After all, those sappy scenarios where you met someone who was utterly perfect only ever happened in those cheesy romance movies. He never could've been so lucky to snatch Sherlock up like that, for him to have actually been _in love_ with him. Maybe because of their relationship, John had finally become too sickeningly mundane for him and maybe Sherlock really was incapable of being human.

Maybe they weren't meant to be.

_Of course we weren't,_  John thought melancholically, his heart pounding achingly in his chest, _because everyone knows_   _those kinds of love stories only ever happen in fiction_

So John was finally able to perform his job at the clinic with no interruptions and Sherlock still went on cases. John went on meaningless dates without having to run off to save anyone and Sherlock appeared in the newspapers more often (like he did anyway despite not wanting to). And John would tidy up a flat which Sherlock wasn't there to mess up.

He tried to make messes himself, so he could clean them up and pretend it was Sherlock's fault.

\---

Three weeks after John had moved out, he started to make two cups of tea in the mornings. One he'd drink and the other would remain on the bench until it got cold and formed a skin and he'd come home late after his shift and have to pour it down the sink.

Occasionally, he'd throw the mugs at the walls.

\---

"You seem to be coming into work more often than usual. Has the criminal activity of London cooled down?"

The tone of Sarah's voice is joking and playful but even still, John couldn't help but feel sad as he picked up some reports from reception. A twinge of pain rattled his leg, strong and completely unexpected. He’d left his cane at home, unwilling to accept that this had caused it to start up again. With a half-resigned yelp, he stumbled against the desk, Sarah caught him and helped him up.

"Careful there," she stammered, confused at the sudden fall. "What was that?"

"Sorry," he replied sheepishly, scratching the back of his head whilst he reorganised himself. He gave his leg a small shake. "It's just this, acting up... Does that sometimes..."

“You should really do something about that."

“It’s fine."

She gave him a sympathetic look. John was sick of all the lying. But she hadn't known, hardly anyone had known. It wasn't that he was ashamed of it (which he was scared that Sherlock had thought), it was just he didn't want it to be made into a big deal. With Sherlock's work, there would've been thousands of tabloid articles had they ever announced their relationship to the public. That's why he'd kept it low-level. Sherlock had agreed, and surprisingly had respected his choice. Probably thought that it would inconvenience him doing the work, that or he just liked to keep to himself as well. Mysterious, as always. 

They used to play a game. Well, it might've not been a game seeming it was just John trying to figure out things whenever Sherlock was struck by a black mood. He would ask him silly things, when Sherlock sulked on the couch after a long day. And John would drag him to bed and curl up to him under the covers, like an attention-seeking cat, whispering to him as he pouted. Sometimes he'd guess the right answer and sometimes he'd just get annoyed and kiss him until he forgot, or would stop sulking. Sherlock would finally give in, holding him close and seething into his hair, and John would laugh at his angers.

He missed the warmth on the other side of the bed.

No, stop it. He couldn't think about that. Not when he knew that Sherlock had never really felt the same. Even if everything he said was lies. He could keep lying to himself, he was pretty sure that's all his life was going to become soon- a big, fat lie. No one knew anything about him and Sherlock. No one knew why. He could be okay with that. He could come to accept living like that.

"Hey, John?" Sarah's brow furrowed when he held his reports to his chest, as if doing so would soothe the pain. "Are you alright...?"

"Yeah," he replied with a smile before walking to his office.

He was.

Really.

\---

It was a secret which he had treasured greatly, their relationship. One night, after a case when the adrenaline still spiked their veins and John was feeling lucky, he had pulled him up against him, by the lapels of his coat. Leant back against the doorway, he simply had let Sherlock tower over him, face pressed into his scarf, breathing him in. Then Sherlock had lowered himself slightly, hunched over as he let their lips brushed. So John reciprocated and Sherlock didn't stop. And they went to bed, huddled under the covers together without another word. They didn't even have a proper conversation about it. That day, they erased a line and everything escalated to a slightly higher level. Nothing much had changed. Sometimes they'd hold hands in the privacy of taxis, sometimes they'd sit in front of the fire and just lie there, sometimes Sherlock would take him for a bath and sometimes John would sit on his lap when he was tired but didn't want to leave him. Like a strangely normal couple.

Maybe it was that normality which drove Sherlock away.

\---

He slept less often. Actually, he probably slept the amount he'd slept before he'd met Sherlock. His presence in John's life seemed to quash his nightmares.

He'd tried, of course he'd tried. But he'd just found himself unable, even after a long day at work. He just couldn't sleep, no matter how hard he tried. It just seemed he was incapable without Sherlock, without the long, lean body pressed against his back. Without the strong arms around his waist and the soft, even puffs of breath against the back of his nape. He'd never known he'd become so accustomed to having Sherlock right there, behind him, against him. The whole 'being in a relationship with another man' think wasn't something he'd explicitly thought about, even after meeting Sherlock. to find that having someone to look after him rather than the other way around was... Surprisingly comforting. Sherlock was like a giant human blanket.

How had he managed to grasp this much control of him? To the point where it affected what he was and wasn't able to do. He had never known Sherlock Holmes had held this much power over him; but John supposed that he was the type of person to make a lasting impression. It made him wonder when he'd allowed that to happen, and if he had the same ability over Sherlock. It had been roughly three months now. That was long enough to get over him... Right?

Sometimes, Sherlock would just look at him, observing his face and the stories that came with it. He would run his fingers over the wrinkles and lines, the bridge of his nose and the bones of his brows. And he would murmur the deductions into his hair, making him splutter or blush or hit him playfully on the side of the jaw in embarrassment. He'd tell them over and over again until John knew them off by heart and could speak the words with him. For hours at times, Sherlock would take the observations he found, until John or him could no longer keep their eyes open, until John shook his hands away and curled up against his chest. And, the funny thing was, it hadn't even been romantic or anything, it was just Sherlock being Sherlock. Sherlock being curious and analysing what was in front of him, which had been John, at the time.

"I fell out of a tree when you were a child, scraped my forehead against the dirt when I hit the ground," John whispered to the lamp on the bedside table, the place where he'd usually be looking up at Sherlock. "Aged seven or eight. It was Harry's fault, and she told me not to tell. So I didn't, and it was easy to hide because it was under my fringe. But putting a band-aid over it hurt and the scab annoyed me, so I picked at it until it scarred."

He imagined that Sherlock's fingers were running over his face. Caressing the small, pale patch of skin that was half hidden by his hair. It had faded with age, so it was barely visible unless you were right up close. But Sherlock had felt the slight difference in skin texture, he knew everything about him. And at first, it had been kind of scary. Someone knowing him as well as he knew himself. John would hardly know anything about Sherlock unless he asked.

"I broke my nose in my early years of high school..." John continued, eyes beginning to water. "During a rugby game and my mother wouldn't let me play for weeks. But I went out and played anyway, and I got a few knocks and hits but I didn't mind. It just took much longer to heal."

He closed his eyes and grasped at the cold duvets next to him. Sherlock had always been so damn warm even though he looked freezing cold. He strangely missed the feeling of being enveloped by someone, grasped so tightly he the world didn't exist outside of Sherlock. He held the blankets to his face to find comfort but all he found was the smell of dust. The tears wet the sheets.

Between the nightmares, he slept restlessly, the phantom touch of someone's fingers brushing his forehead always leaving in his wake.

\---

God, he must've looked like a sight.

They'd put up some new sets of stickers (or were they paintings?) up in the paediatric ward. The sort of cartoony ones which they put there so the hospital feels a lot less clinical and more like a giant playhouse where they make you feel better? And despite the fact that the doctors had needles and disgusting flavoured medicines, at least Mickey Mouse and Spongebob Squarepants were there to sympathise. At least, that's what he thought of them as, sympathisers. He hadn't really appreciated them when he had gone to hospitals as a kid (they didn't even have many back then), but he liked to think that the kids today thought they made the concept of a hospital less scary.

John had just been on the way to the staff room for his break when he'd passed it and had to stop and stare. The nurses rushing about the place ignored him as he stilled in the hallway, he had the modesty to move out the way before continuing to blink up at the wall. Sure, he'd been told but this really wasn't what he was expecting.

"It's cute isn't it?" one of the nurses stopped to briefly organise her trolley. 

"Yeah," John vaguely replied.

"More educational than those television cartoons too," she added before moving along.

That left him with his thoughts, blocking out everyone else around him. The more he stared up at the stickers, the colder the hallway got, and the more he wrapped his arms around himself. The oversized jumper which he remembered Sherlock had bought him no longer warm enough to fight off this sudden chill. He cradled his waist unable to look away from it. How on earth was he going to be able to walk past this? They were so bright and cheerful and John didn't know whether he could cope when all he wanted to feel was sad.

Now that he and Sherlock no longer communicated, John never went on cases. So he had to go to work more often in order to pay off his singular rent. It was good, he guessed. He was making money, he helped people feel or get better and it stopped most of his internal thoughts. A distraction, for the lack of a better word. At least he was being productive. Unlike a certain consulting detective he knew...

The nostalgia hit hard once he isolated himself in his mind. The memories that no one knew but him and Sherlock. Staring up at the diagram of the Solar System on the wall of the paediatric ward, he held a hand to his mouth. He didn't know why he did that, but he did it anyway. Maybe because once upon a time, this would've made him laugh, now it just brought about an aching in his heart.

John had taught him about it, one late night on the living room couch; the television had been on, but John remembered that neither of them had been paying attention to it. He'd taken an old, crumpled piece of paper, which Sherlock told him he was pretty sure was a bill, and drawn several circles on it and named them all. He’d even gone to the trouble of finding some multicoloured pens (which had been a task), colouring them all in, and then giving the whole thing a cheesy title. Which had annoyed Sherlock, something about being cold while he was trying to make his diagram beautiful.

"Right. So, this is the Sun," John had said, re-seated between Sherlock's legs with his back against his chest after his mad dash around the flat in search for colouring implements. He pointed at the largest orange circle in the middle, which was meant to represent the Sun, before dragging it across the the page to a smaller, grey one. "Mercury, Venus," he stopped on a moderate-sized blue circle covered in green splotches, looking up at Sherlock with a knowing smile. "Earth," he remembered being flustered as Sherlock kissed the side of his nose out of the blue. “Mars, Jupiter, Saturn," he circled the rings surrounding the latter planet. "Uranus, Neptune," before landing on the smallest brown circle. “And Pluto, although, Pluto isn't considered a planet anymore... And they all go around the Sun, Sherlock."

"I'm not going to remember this." Sherlock had told him blankly, although John could still tell he was amused.

"I know," John had smiled down at the paper. "But I like to think I taught you something... Even if only for a little while..."

He'd realised the implication of Sherlock's words right then, huddled together on the couch. The fact that he could be deleted so easily... The fact that Sherlock could become bored of him. No matter whether John wanted him to or not, he could detach himself from them and leave John on his own. Despite the fact that Sherlock was behind him, warm breath on his collar and arms around his waist, that doubt wouldn't fade. Once it was known it just kept growing, until John feared that it would come true and forced himself to make action.

And it was then John realised that there were tears rolling down his cheeks.

He was crying.

So he leant against the wall, saline streaming down his face. No one saw him, no one took notice of the strange man staring up at the Solar System with tears pouring down his face.

Sarah found him just before his break ended, tucked between the plastic waiting chairs and a pot plant near the staff room. She sent him home, telling him not to come back in for at least a week when he refused to tell her what was wrong. But he needed the money and Sarah said she’d pay him to stay home. Because obviously, he wasn't okay.

She'd told him to go home, and John thought _I can't._

\---

He still came into work anyway, despite Sarah not wanting him to.

It wasn't that bad. In fact, it was all he could do. The Solar System remained on the wall and John lived through its presence everyday

\--- 

His blog remained unedited for ages, no new posts, no nothing. Well, people hadn't commented on his absence and the hit counter never changed anyway. John spent more and more time isolated from the world. He hardly spoke to anyone unless it was work related. Even then, Sarah would sent him home early half the time, despite his protests. His counsellor had contacted him. He'd ignored her calls, despite wanting to have someone to talk to he just... He couldn't. Not about something which had been as personal as that. Being in a relationship with Sherlock somehow seemed different than dating anyone else. It was quiet, muted, the hushed whispered underneath the blankets. A little secret between them. John felt obliged to keep it that way, so he didn't speak to anyone about it. Not Greg, not anyone else who knew. Sure, they knew about it... But they hadn't _known_. The only person he'd felt he was allow to talk to was Sherlock but... Well, that was just something John wasn't sure about doing. He stayed, alone in this own bubble of secrets. He hardly slept or ate anymore. You could almost say that his body was a vessel to carry around his heavy mind in.

Just like Sherlock.

John shook his head vigourously. Goddammit, he just had to link everything to him, didn't he? Stupid Sherlock. He sighed and placed the mug he'd been sipping out of on the coffee table. Making his way over to the window, he stared out over the city. It was his day off, albeit he would rather be at work than here. He'd been threatened with a holiday if he'd gone in, and John didn't think he'd be able to stand that. He'd go stir crazy, considering his old life. This habit of comparing everything to when he was with Sherlock, as a couple and in general, probably was what made him depressed all the time. He needed to stop.

The streets were bustling with early morning life; parents rushing their kids to school, people late for work, teenagers debating whether to ditch or not. John gazed down at the asphalt sadly. The energy of the city once made his veins sing with the thrill of the chase, but now all he could do was stare down on it and watch. He didn't dare contact Sherlock after so long, he'd probably deleted him if John was being realistic. As much as he longed to run through the dark alleyways at night alongside the 'World's only Consulting Detective', he didn't even know if Sherlock knew of him anymore. That was what he feared, Sherlock's ability to forget something, just like that. He could forget simple facts like the Earth going around the Sun, people's names, he could probably forget his own childhood if he wanted (yes, as of now, he still remembered it). John ran a hand through his hair, closing the curtain again. He didn't want to be seen by the world. Not like this, not in such a pitiful state of self-loathing and humiliation. His break-up with Sherlock had affected him more than he'd initially thought.

"John...?"

Curious, he went to the door, opening it to find Mycroft standing there. Blinking in confusion, he asked.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh just..." Mycroft hummed thoughtfully, letting himself in. "Passing the time..."

John shut the door behind him with an exasperated sigh and a shake of his head. Holmes' and their manners. Even if Mycroft had the aura of a gentleman, he could still be as rude as his little brother. He walked over to the living area, where Mycroft had situated himself by the window, right where John had just been... Had he seen John standing there before? And surely, John should've seen him... Yet again, he hadn't particularly been looking... John stood on the other side of the window, opposite him.

"You don't 'kill time'..." John reminded him.

"... _Touché, cher Jean..._ " Mycroft chuckled knowingly, a perfect accent on the phrase. "You are right."

He knew both the Holmes' knew several languages, one of the ones they used more often was French. Sherlock had spoken to him in it sometimes, and John, with his half-forgotten, middle school knowledge, had half replied. Although, Sherlock ended up teaching him a lot. It was strangely romantic of him, seeming it was French and it was Sherlock. But nevertheless, it hadn't been real. John huffed at a memory which suddenly flashed through his head. In the morning one day when Sherlock just woke and approached him in the kitchen.

_“Bonjour_ _, mon chéri soldat_ _,"_ Sherlock had murmured randomly, planting a light kiss behind the ear as he enveloped him in a hug. _"_ _Comment avez-vous dormi?_ _"_

_"Bien, merci,"_ John would reply lazily, his 'Sherlock's-speaking-French-time-to-try-and-answer-him' brain turning on, despite the early timing. Most of the stuff he sort of just interpreted, he had no idea about half the stuff he was going on about. _"Et toi?"_

_"Eh bien, comme toujours quand je dors à côté vous,"_ Sherlock said, low and gruff from sleep, the roughness of his baritone voice running down John's spine in shivers. _"Vous me tenir chaud, vous savez? Il est agréable de se réveiller à."_

_"Je suis heureux,"_ John had smiled to himself and then... "... I don't know what that last bit meant."

"Mm," Sherlock chuckled. "A shame."

But he'd never told him what he'd said. 

Opening the curtains he eyes Mycroft, who was following his movements. John had no doubt he was being observed and analysed. He sighed, there was no point in trying to hide anything, it wasn't like he could if he wanted to. Even if deduction didn't pick up everything, he practically was the British Government. He most likely had his life story in his filing cabinet. With reluctance, he met Mycroft's eyes again.

"So why are you here then?" John asked cautiously. 

"... I was... Concerned..." Mycroft leant against the window sill, somewhat uncomfortable. Well, Mycroft was probably as awkward with anything involving relationships as his brother. "So I came to see how you were."

Mycroft? Concerned about him? He’d known yes, but John hadn’t expected or even let it cross his mind that Mycroft might care. If anything, all he’d shown was indifference. He hadn't even blinked when Sherlock told him (rather bluntly to be honest). 

"Shouldn't you be going to your brother?" John questioned incredulously, unable to use his name in case his voice cracked. "Even if he's-"

"Sherlock is fine," Mycroft interrupted smoothly, blinking down at him with those ever alert eyes of his. "As are you. I should've made the same assumptions." 

He hauled himself off the window elegantly, making his way to the door with a flourish. The muted tap of his umbrella on the ground made John uneasy, but soon he was opening the door. John went to see him off.

"I... Apologise... For any... Inconvinience, my brother caused," Mycroft said softly, hovering in the doorway. "He is known to do that." 

As the door shut, John bit his lip and shook his head. Knowing him, Mycroft could probably see him, but John liked to think he couldn't. And so he let the tears roll down his face and gripped his hands into the wool of his sweater. 

He wasn't fine.

\---

Bearing with any burden alone is never easy, so perhaps John should've been expecting it when he woke up and couldn't do anything but cry. He managed to keep it under control enough to call into work before the sobbing started and he couldn’t stop unless his hands were over his mouth. The silence drilled into his ears and it was deafening. He hated it, the loneliness made him even sadder. The sadness washed through him like a tsunami, overpowering and unstoppable. The trauma of the war seemed like nothing compared to this type of heartbreak. This painfully intense feeling of melancholic solitude.

He stayed in bed most of the day, his chest heavy and limbs aching. His head hurt from all the tears he’d cried, from the lack of oxygen he’d gotten due to his stuttering sobs. Water and painkiller hardly helped that though. How could he let himself become this? He’d been a soldier once. Strong walls and impenetrable soul, he could hide things, maybe not as well as Sherlock could, but he was still capable. There had been a time where words had never fazed him, now everything that Sherlock ever said to him was coming back to haunt him. And he supposed that even his walls had to have come crashing down some time.

\---

Okay, this was getting ridiculous. This amount of feeling! This amount of emotion! It had been so long now! And there really was no one to blame but himself for that. He knew this was going to happen! He’d even warned himself before being courageous enough to take the risk. Now here he was, on the worse side of that. Sherlock wasn’t capable of that level of social communication, social interaction, why had John ever thought so? He was just a really, really good actor. He had everyone fooled, even John. Something which he scolded himself for not spotting sooner. He’d been with him constantly, why had he never picked up any of his habits, his mannerisms, why wasn’t he able to tell the difference between something genuine and something not?

John cursed his stupidity, his loyalty to Sherlock. He hated how the man managed to have him wrapped around his little finger, able to be manipulated to his will. Sherlock Holmes had somehow become his goddamn sun. But some how, some bloody way how, he didn’t find himself being able to regret it. Because Sherlock had fixed him, by some chance he saw Mike that day and introduced him to the most incredible man he'd ever known. By some chance, Sherlock Holmes had seen something in him that was different from the rest, different enough to find interesting enough to keep hold of. He’d taken him in and pumped life back into his veins, he’d turned the world from shades of grey to bursting colours just by existing. The life that John craved was one that Sherlock lived every day. It was luck that John had ever stumbled across his path.

“No, stop it, stop it!” John muttered to himself, pacing the length of his living room as he looked out over London from the window again. “You don’t need him. He never really wanted you."

He tried, he really did. Falling out of love with Sherlock. John thought of everything bad about him. His sociopathy, his arrogance, his blatant rudeness and selfishness. The way he left body parts in the fridge and chemicals with the tea. His snobbish attitude and sporadic black moods. 

But there was hope, a determined little flame flaring in John’s chest, clashing with the sorrow and despair which was trying to extinguish it. Hope, of course deep down, there was hope. He was a soldier, never gave in, never gave up. But what was the point in hoping for something he logically knew wasn’t real? He now understood what Sherlock meant by not understanding the concept of emotions. They drove you to think and weird things, irrational things, things which you knew in your head weren’t real or wouldn’t help. There was nothing he could do to stop the aching in his body, no matter what he thought, his instincts always fought back. He didn’t miss Sherlock, he didn’t need Sherlock. The pain in his chest just got worse. 

“You’re being ridiculous!” John yelled in frustration to himself. He grabbed his hair and tugged at it. “You know that he didn’t really… Deep down…"

John found himself hesitant. Why though? He knew that it was true, so why was he feeling this… Doubt. Sherlock never loved him, he could think it all he liked but he could never tell it to himself out loud, much less tell it to anyone else. Because sometimes there had been times where Sherlock had just seemed so, so human. Where he’d run his hands through his hair fondly and when he’d take John to bed and whisper to him things that happened in his day. Just little things which made him seem less like a robot and more a soft-bodied being. Sometimes John felt as if Sherlock truly felt the way he said he did.

“No, he never told you,” John shook his head of those lingering thoughts. “He’s outright straightforward. He would’ve told you if… If he really did… Had…"

This indecisiveness was exactly what was keeping him from moving on. This hesitance, this doubt. That hope that Sherlock really had loved him and wouldn’t discard him on the side of the street. But he knew it was all too true. No matter what he wanted, Sherlock was Sherlock and nothing was going to change him. There was no point in even thinking about there being a chance of him ever have loved him.

“I’m not… Good, with things like this,” he told the emptiness of his flat, pretending that he was talking to Sherlock. “It’s not something I talk about easily but you…"

He halted his pacing, turning to stare at the door. As if someone would burst through it at any moment. It wasn’t like there was anyone to listen, and was there really a reason to be humiliated if there was no one there to hear? And besides, maybe this was what he needed. To talk about it. Maybe if he wouldn’t talk to a counsellor, the walls of his flat would be a good substitute.

“You were a whole different story…” John chuckled sadly. “You… You made me this completely… Romantic… Sap… I…” He couldn’t say he was used to blurting his feeling out loud all the time. But even so, he liked a little affectionate talk every once and again. Well, until Sherlock. Then he’d spoken in it all the time. “I guess you reshaped me completely. From the way I was able to function to the way I feel emotions. You brought out the high-school smitten girl out of me… If I have to be perfectly honest. It’s a bit embarrassing now that I think back on it. But I never really felt embarrassed in front of you. ‘Cause you’d do it back..."

Would it have been too clingy of him for wanting Sherlock to have told him things? Silly things like ‘I love you’ and ‘you’re so beautiful’; all that cheesy crap that everyone thought he hated and he knew Sherlock wouldn’t, couldn’t, say. It was a strange thing. He loved hearing the words, having them there, as stated proof. John wrapped his arms around himself, walking backwards until he felt the coolness of the wall against his back. He leant against it, almost all his weight. The support was reassuring, he felt like he would collapse on himself if he stood on his feet by himself. He was by no means some shy, demure girl, no. He could fend for himself and beat someone up if they said otherwise. But something about Sherlock had made him feel completely and utterly safe. He’d dropped his defences and allowed him to look after him because… Because... John didn’t even know why...

“I never told you this, and I’m not sure I ever will but…” John breathed out shakily, voice a hushed whisper. “When I first saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful human being I’d ever seen. And you were just sitting there, looking down at the slides in your microscope and I couldn’t help but notice the way the light shone off your hair and the pale blueness of your eyes… And I remember thinking how crazy that was. How crazy I was, for thinking that…” he rubbed his hands up and down his arms, as if he were cold, but the heating was on. “But when I got to know you, I couldn’t help but notice more, your hands, the flicks of your hair, and the whole ridiculousness of the situation I’d landed myself in but…” he sighed in resentment, “I kind of had begun to accept it after the first year we were living together… I learnt more about you, not just physically, but in behaviour… I learnt what made you tick and what drove you to treat yourself they way you do… You know, stupid things, things you learn about your friends after you’ve been friends with them for a while… I noticed how you disliked listening but would listen to a couple of us, and how you were actually the most human human being there ever was underneath all the sociopath stuff…"

John laughed at the last line. God, what was he doing? Presenting a bloody speech? He shivered as the memories of his and Sherlock’s relationship suddenly filled his mind. Talking about it made them even more vivid than usual. He tried stopping it, distracting himself with things from work and random things like his childhood but he couldn’t stop once he’d started. It was like a shaken up soft drink bottle. Once the lid was off, he wouldn’t stop until he’d gotten it all out. Until he finally felt okay with it. Until the thoughts about him stopped or he ran out of them. 

“I would pretend I was cold at night so you would curl up against me more often, because I felt safe with you there, right behind me,” John admitted somewhat sheepishly, a blush forming on his cheeks. “And I would lean against you so often because I liked the smell of your body wash, and the way it sort of added to the way you smelt usually. Just like… Sherlock…” he’d bought the same body wash, and that, he had to admit, felt shameful. “When you were away on those cases which took you out of London without me, I’d steal your pillow and hugged it against myself because it smelt like you and that just… Reminded me of you and… And I know that sounds really, really weird but… It’s the only way to describe it… I just… I don’t know, it’s just something I’ve always liked about you… I liked the way you smelt…"

He could smell the hints of bergamot on his skin, faded from the day’s wear but still faintly present. Tears began to prick his eyes and he brought his sleeves up to his face to wipe them away. But they just kept coming so John eventually just held them over his eyes, the wool of his jumper getting damp with his tears. He missed Sherlock a lot more than he let himself admit. He missed him a lot and that was something which John thought that he was only beginning to accept. That Sherlock Holmes, the sociopathic Consulting arsehole, had been a big part of his life, even more so of his love life, and he’d had a much bigger impact than John had ever anticipated. Now that he knew that, what he had to figure out now was how to figure out how to get over it. If there was a way he could get over it. 

“You seemed like such a romantic sap…” John stammered in disbelief, looking down at the carpet through the gaps in his fingers. “Everything you’d tell me, everything you’d do… I… I really thought that you felt something for me… Just the things you’d tolerate through for me… Like watching television late at night and eating breakfast occasionally. You were able to trick me so easily…” he inhaled deeply before continuing, the doubt flooding his senses. “And is that what you do to everyone… Or was it just me? Did you just not want me to leave and that was what made you play along with it? Was it because I got too boring? Did I do something…? I don’t even know but I had to leave. I couldn’t stay there knowing that you didn’t actually love me. Because I was so, so deeply in love with you and I… God… You’re perfect, with your hair and your eyes and your voice… And I… I couldn’t bear with the fact that it was all pretend. That you were acting and none of it ever really meant anything to you… And I hate myself for being so weak but I… I couldn’t help it because if there was going to anyone who broke me down, of course it had to be you!"

The emptiness of the flat almost made it seem like his voice was amplified; every hitch, every crack, every held back sob and every stuttered breath came back to him. It probably didn’t help that the lights were off and it was a pretty gloomy day outside. He stood in the muted light from the window, the pains from crying beginning to make his head pound. This wasn’t healthy, no one did this when they broke up with someone. This wasn’t normal. Did that make it wrong…? The way he stood here in his flat alone, crying about a past lover… He’d never done this before… But then again, he supposed Sherlock scared them off before he could become too attached.

“You always used to tell me that the universe didn’t matter, because it had nothing to do with your work and why should you have to know something that wasn’t really ever going to help you?” John remembered this completely at a random, maybe it was something to do with the Solar System drawing, he didn’t know. “But I found it interesting, the idea of the universe. How it was the entirety of our lives and that we were just a diminutive part within it… And you still said it didn’t matter. Because if the universe was the entirety of existence, then your universe was made up of London and its criminals, and the morgue and your experiments because that’s all you really cared for,” he shuddered, unable to stop. It seemed so cold. “And deep down, I hoped that I was part of your universe, that I actually mattered because I hoped that you loved me in the same way I loved you… That I…"

He slid down the wall and sat hunched up against it, knees to his chest and face pressed into his knees. John shook his head, the tears still coming out his eyes and he wondered if they’d ever run out. He curled in on himself to see if it would help quash the breaking of his heart. The breaking of himself. Would he ever be able to function without him? And John knew that was completely stupid but still… He couldn’t help it. Because this was him months after and here he was, crying on the floor, alone in his flat. If that wasn’t pitiful, John didn’t know what was.

And it was that loneliness that made him realise how much exactly Sherlock had mattered in his life. He’d become so absorbed in him that he hardly hung out with anyone else, he had hardly any friends apart from the bloody Consulting Detective. John suddenly realised how his own life, his own universe, had revolved around Sherlock. Every time he beckoned him, coaxed him to go on some of the cases, every time he called, John came running. It was ridiculous how much he let Sherlock dominate his life. But then again, he wouldn’t of had it any other way.

John laughed at his own behaviour. How he’d managed to depend on him so much he didn’t know how to live when he wasn’t around. Stupid, stupid him. 

“I’m such an idiot…” John murmured to himself bitterly. “Hoping in a hopeless situation."

He sat there for a long time, the light outside the window eventually became darker and darker until he was swallowed up by the blackness. Vaguely, he wondered what Sherlock was doing, and if he was thinking about John. That was, if he still knew who he was.

Sherlock and his perfectly cow-licked curls, icy blue eyes, long limbs and elegance. The smiles he only ever shared with John and the smug laughs when he outwitted Mycroft or John tripped over something (yeah, that happened). His strangely amorous hugs and the whispered deductions about people in London, the sprinting after criminals and the post-case make-outs. Sitting on the couch at night eating takeout and chasing after each other around the flat like absolute nut cases. John hugged himself tightly, finally realising why he couldn’t get that doubt out of his mind. Why he didn’t mind that Sherlock left body parts in the fridge and his sarcastic personality. 

“Oh God…” John choked out with a hand across his mouth. “You’re still in love with him…"

_And that’s a not a good thing_

\---

He saw Sherlock five months later.

Just when he’d finally thought he was better, when he was almost sure that Sherlock really didn’t affect him anymore. He’d almost moved on. Hell, he was even on a date! A date! With this lovely woman, Jess, they’d just been at the malls and John had laughed at the way she’d gone around the shops with a type of excitement he had only ever seen in one other person, who was gone from his life.

He wouldn’t have even noticed him if she hadn’t stopped to find somewhere to eat. She was looking on the menu when John felt that unnerving sensation of being watched again. So he’d turned around and seen Sherlock staring back. And John felt caught like a deer in the headlights, unable to move or breathe without being shot down. His shock was mirrored in Sherlock’s face, and they kind of just blinked incredulously at each other for a while. No one noticed them, moving around their static forms. 

Then Jess pulled him into the cafe she’d been looking at the menu of, away from his analytical gaze. And John found himself still unable to breathe long after.

\---

“John! Hey, John!"

Shocked, the said man turned his head to find Greg Lestrade rushing towards him. In the supermarket of all places. Seriously, he’d just been walking home from work and even in this gigantic city, he was still able to be found? He didn’t even know that many people in London… And it was snowing, he was dressed up in several layers, and a scarf. He didn’t think he’d be recognised easily. Well, he supposed if there was anyone who could find him if he went missing entirely would be Sherlock. But that wasn’t something that mattered, so why on earth was he thinking about it. He shook his head of those thoughts. Stupid. Steeling himself, he put on a smile and turned to greet him.

“Hello Greg, how are you?” 

“Good, yeah,” Greg replied happily. John wished he felt the same. The bag at his side told John that he’d just finished his own shift for the day. But what was he doing around here? The Met was on the other side of town… Wasn’t it? “Haven’t seen you around in a while… The Yarders are kinda sad about it.

“Really?” John asked incredulously. He thought the Yarders hated him.

“Sure. You made Sherlock a lot more tolerable. That in itself deserves commendation. But, you know him, always an arrogant, egoistic arsehole, right?"

John chuckled in amusement, hoping Greg wouldn’t notice the note of sadness it held. He hadn’t gone on any other dates since his encounter with Sherlock two about a month ago. The stupid man had such an effect on him and John hated it.

“Yeah, I guess."

“Do you wanna get a coffee?” Greg inquired curiously. “I mean, if you’re not busy. You know, it’s just been so long since we’ve talked, yeah?"

“Sure, why not?” John shrugged nonchalantly. It had been a while since he’d talked with anyone to be honest. Except himself. Then again, he didn’t think talking to himself was all that good either.

“There’s this place down the road I know of,” Greg gestured behind him and they began to walk down the street. It reminded John of Sherlock whenever he offered places to get takeout. 

"Okay."

Greg led him to quaint little place tucked between a couple of shops. It was nice, cute even, not too crowded like some of the places he knew. The few people there kept to themselves, either alone or occupied with the free Wifi. John sighed as he sat down in a booth and began removing his scarf and jacket, grateful to be out of he chill. The DI went up to order for them, John was surprised that he remembered what he even liked. Seeming that he hadn't been around for so long. While that was happening, John entertained himself by looking out the window at all the taxis driving by. He wondered if Sherlock was in any of them, on the way home to Baker Street. And his heart ached at the thought of not being able to go with him. _Home_.

"Here," the clack of a tray against the table jolted him from his trance. 

John practically downed the boiling hot drink, then blinked at the table, where a not-so-small piece of custard square sat. With his brows furrowed, he glanced back up to Greg in confusion.

"What's this?"

"Huh? Oh, Sherlock told me once this was your favourite. I don't really know why," Greg told him absentmindedly as he sat down, placing his bag beside him. "And you kind of look like you haven't eaten in a while."

He could only hope there wasn't a blush on his cheeks, and if there was, that the flush from the cold had hid it. Sherlock told people about stuff like that? More importantly, he remembered it? It was hardly something that John thought worth remembering. Especially for Sherlock.

They'd gone to a cafe, kind of like this, just after a case. And they'd hardly slept (and in Sherlock's case, ate), so the first thing John was thinking of was coffee. Together, they'd gone up to the cabinet and John had ordered a custard square and a coffee. Sherlock ordered himself a coffee too, although nothing to eat. John had just shoved some of the thing towards his mouth. 

"Custard square?" Sherlock had asked quizzically at the sweet. 

"My mum used to make it when I was a kid," John had admitted to him sheepishly. “Y’know? She made everything, the pastry, the custard… It’s nice."

“Seems like a lot of effort."

John’s head had tilted down and a small smile found its way on to his face. “It’s my favourite."

He'd somehow found out that Sherlock didn't really have any preferences to any food, but he loved chiffon cake and fondly remembered getting Greg to help him make one with him (which, in hindsight, had been a bad idea). Of course he'd like something which looked as elegant as he did. Maybe Mrs Hudson told him, John didn't quite know, a birthday cake or something? Whatever, Sherlock had enjoyed it either way (after being jealous for a while and acting like a five-year-old). Shaking his head of the memory, and glad that it wasn’t Sherlock he was opposite, he pushed it towards Greg. 

"I'm fine-"

"John, believe me, I used to have to deal with Sherlock. Almost the same way you did," Greg sighed with a shake of his head. "I can tell when someone has missed a couple of meals. You've dropped a few pounds, admit it. It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to figure that one out."

"I've just been busy with work," John mumbled, reluctantly taking the fork and stabbing it into the square. He popped a small chunk in his mouth, allowing the cool custard to melt on his tongue. It was nothing like his mother’s homemade ones, but this would do for him.

“Please don’t tell me living with Sherlock has encouraged you to take up that kind of lifestyle,” Greg groaned in exasperation. “I already have to deal with him, you too?"

“I need to make some money,” John shrugged, trying to make it seem like less of a deal.

He wouldn’t say for the rent, because even when he had been there, he hadn’t had to do this much. And Greg didn’t seem to know (or need to, for that matter) that John had moved out of Baker Street. Unless, of course, Sherlock had told him. John, now discovering his hunger, carefully ate the remaining custard square. Greg just looked at him smugly.

“Sure, whatever,” Greg rolled his eyes with a sarcastic voice as he finished. “You’re gonna burn out if you keep working like this, run yourself to the ground. You look like a zombie now."

“I like working."

“That’s hardly an excuse."

And John knew that. But what else was he supposed to do? Say? He didn’t even see Sherlock any more, and John wasn’t quite sure if he would want to; he didn’t particularly want to hang out or catch up with any friends, because they saw that something was wrong with him and John didn’t need or want to be reminded of that; he could sit at home and cry, or keep making a mess of the place with the little belongings he owned, and then tidy them up again… But that was unproductive and John knew that wouldn’t help. Working was the only thing he could to. He could help people, he could save lives. The clinic served as a great distraction too, he hardly ever thought of Sherlock unless he went home and did nothing. 

“John, shop’s closing up,” Greg’s sigh brought him back from his thoughts and John hastily got up, gathering his things.

He rearranged his scarf, tugged on his jacket and shoved his free hand in his pocket, the other carrying his bag. They made their way outside, back into the cold. Silence came between them while walking down the footpath, slushy with gritty, half-melted snow. Greg suddenly stopped him when they came under an awning again. John looked at him confusedly; the older man seemed angry with him.

“Greg?” John asked.

“John…” Greg scratched the back of his head awkwardly, eyes averting his own. “I… I know what happened with Sherlock and-"

“I know you do,” John muttered bitterly, starting to walk off again. “There’s no reason to-" 

“I just want to know,” Greg called out, by no means stopping him. “Are you alright?"

John stopped walking. He didn’t answer, because he knew Greg already knew the answer to that question. His fists clenched into his gloves and he cried. The tears rolled down his face in silence, and then the sobs came. John’s hands came to his face, trying rubbing away the tears, trying to stifle the choked blubbers. But he couldn’t, so Greg came around in front of him and wrapped him in his arms and John shook his head over and over again.

“No,” he chanted, as if it were a prayer. “No, no, no."

_I’m not alright._

\---

Nothing happened from that day forth, well, Lestrade treated him like a delicate little flower, but apart from that. And yeah, he found that annoying. But what was he to expect when he told him how he really felt that day? That he was still in love with Sherlock but Sherlock didn’t love him back. That he broke up with him because he didn’t want to be rejected first. It sounded pathetic, it was pathetic. So he didn’t really expect to be treated in any other way. 

So, it was a real surprise to find no other than Sherlock Holmes banging his head repeatedly against his flat door, seven months after they’d broken up. It sent a droning rhythm throughout the hallway, he’d just come home from grocery shopping just after work. Curious, he’s silently come up to see what was happening, and he’d found the World’s Only Consulting Detective. John almost dropped his groceries in shock. Sherlock didn’t appear to have noticed his presence as of yet, too busy with hitting his head against the door over and over again. It was something John would’ve never imagined he’d do. 

“… Sherlock…?" 

Said man whipped his head in his direction, confusion and shock visible in his features. He looked very different from when John left him, but the exact same at the same time. His skin was as pale as the snow outside, and there were pronounced, dark circles under his eyes. John could somewhat tell he’d lost weight, even if it was hidden under that thick Belstaff coat. He guessed that because he had no one around to tell him, he ignored his body’s needs more than ever, even so, John couldn’t help but wince a little.

“… I thought you were home…?” Sherlock asked him.

“… I had a late shift…” John said breathlessly, hoping he didn’t sound too weird. Sherlock moved to the side as he fumbled with the lock. “Um… Come in…"

He held the door open and Sherlock raced inside, his eyes darted everywhere, taking in the surroundings and gaining information from them. John didn’t think much of it, after all, it was just all his stuff and Sherlock practically knew everything about him, and he was used to Sherlock snooping around so what difference did it make? After a while, Sherlock came to a stop in the middle of the living room, standing there awkwardly. With a slight sigh, John made his way to the kitchen, placing the shopping on his bench and started to put things away. In the midst of this, he turned to Sherlock. 

“Tea?” he inquired politely.

“Yes.” 

“Okay."

John really didn’t know how to act. They hadn’t spoken in over half a year. It was tense, awkward, John was scared of saying something stupid, like he was prone to do whenever Sherlock was involved. He focused on making their tea, watching the amber liquid swirling in the mugs as he stirred them.

“How are you?” Sherlock finally questioned, voice tentative, gentle.

“… I’ve been… I’m good,” John answered with the same hesitant tone. He noticed Sherlock was still standing. “… You can sit down, you know?"

“… I’m perfectly comfortable here."

John decided not to say anything more about it, instead walking over and handing Sherlock his tea. “Two teaspoons of sugar and milk."

“Thank you,” Sherlock took it carefully and immediately brought it to his mouth. It must’ve scalded his tongue, but he obviously didn’t care.

“So…” John leant against the armchair next to them. 

Neither of them talked, their mouths both occupied with their drinks. John didn’t really know what to say, and by what Sherlock has spoken so far, he didn’t really know either. Sherlock finished his drink first, meticulously placing his mug on the table behind of him and putting his hands in his pockets, eyes downcast. John watched him hopefully. He’d missed Sherlock so much, maybe he’d come round to tell him about a case? Even if they couldn’t go back to what they were before, if they could go back to being friends, John would be a happy man.

Sherlock suddenly thrust something towards him. A crumpled piece of paper.

Bewildered, he finished his own tea before placing his mug down too, taking the page from Sherlock, he opened it. “… Sherlock, this is a bill for the flat rent from ages ago."

The taller man stared at it blankly for a couple of moments, John felt himself becoming really confused. Sherlock tilted his head at the paper.

“On the back,” he muttered, averting eye contact.

Doing what he said, John refolded the bill and turned it over, seeing the drawing of the Solar System which he’d drawn so long ago staring right back at him. His breath hitched, fingers running over all the planets fondly. Where had he found this? Why did he want John to have it?

“… The Solar System…” John chuckled, a small smile on his features. He held it up to the other man in amusement. “I doubt you remember what this all means, do you?"

Sherlock stayed silent that extra second longer. “That’s what I thought."

The mood had suddenly become more sombre. “… What do you mean…?"

“It’s nothing,” John was given one of those fake smiles which Sherlock used on clients before turning towards the door.

“Whoa, whoa, hey!” John panicked, dashing after him while saying desperately, hopefully. He grabbed Sherlock’s wrist and tugged back. “I don’t get it, Sherlock. Why did you bring this to me?"

All Sherlock did was struggle against him, pulling forwards to try get out of his grasp, trying to get away. But John wasn’t going to let this go, he wasn’t going to forget. Not when it could mean something more than just the Solar System, John had hope, he had nervous butterflies in his stomach. Was this Sherlock trying to tell him something? He needed an answer because if Sherlock left him with nothing, he wasn’t quite sure whether he’d be able to cope. Sherlock slammed a fist into the wall next to them, angry, and John pulled at him more.

“Sherlock!"

John wanted an answer, he wanted to know why. Why Sherlock had brought him a picture which he’d drawn all the way back when they were in a relationship. When they were sitting on the couch one night and John realised that the man in front of him would one day let him go, get bored, chuck him out like a piece of rubbish. Sherlock had an answer to the question he had been asking himself since he’d left, and John just wanted to be wrong.

“You can’t just give this to be and leave without an explanation! I-"

“I tried, okay?!” Sherlock suddenly shouted at him, neck craning to glare at him. John jerked back at the abrupt outburst, letting go of his arm. “I tried to forget the Solar System because it took up space in my Mind Palace, but I _couldn’t_ forget it! Because when we were sitting on that couch together and you were pointing to some stupid coloured circles on a crumpled, old bill, I couldn’t stop looking at you!” 

To be honest, John’s head was full of cotton wool as Sherlock turned around to face him fully. His head took time processing what Sherlock had said and what that meant and stepped back in at the force of the realisation. Sherlock wanted him to come back, he wanted him to come back home. Sherlock leant back against the front door and John stared as he broke down. That same person he thought to be incapable of emotion, broken down and fuelled by sentiment and hope. 

“I couldn’t forget the Solar System because…” Sherlock choked on his own voice, staring John in the eyes. “Because of… Because of Neptune... And Saturn... And the stupid stars and comets in the corner!"

Sherlock covered his face with his hands, eyes closing and muttering to himself like a mad man. He was angry with himself, humiliated. John stepped closer. 

“I couldn’t forget the Solar System because it reminded me of you,” Sherlock whispered to him in stutters, voice cracked and hopeful and wanting. “And… And I…"

They met eyes again and John felt his chest constrict. He couldn’t breathe, just like the first time this had happened, the first time _they_ happened. The first time that John pulled them together and they’d become something more than Sherlock and John.

“I’m in love with you…” Sherlock said breathlessly, full of sentiment and emotion and love and John felt himself tearing up. “And you’ve been driving me crazy over the past seven months because I couldn’t stop thinking about you and your eyes and your hair... The way we’d sit on the couch together late at night and how you'd steal my shirts in the mornings. And I hated myself, and I hate myself now because I know you don’t want me here anymore because I saw you with that woman, so obviously, you've moved on, but I-"

That was what took it, John crowded up against Sherlock and kissed him desperately, letting him know he felt the exact same way. He poured his soul into it, moving his lips against Sherlock’s in a way he hoped would get his point across. Sherlock’s arms tangled around his waist, squeezing him tight and John finally felt okay again. He finally felt at home. In Sherlock’s arms, the smell of his bergamot body wash filling his senses along with the smell of Sherlock himself. John brought his hands up to cup his cheeks, running his thumbs over Sherlock’s cheekbones. The fingers digging into his spine hurt a little, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He still had the drawing in his grasp, and he could feel that the paper was irritating Sherlock, so he let it drop to the ground and they parted. Tears ran down his face and he covered his mouth to stop the sobs.

“I’m sorry Sherlock,” John cried, voice broken and choked behind his hands. “God, I’m so, so sorry…"

How could he have been so stupid? How could he have ever thought that Sherlock was acting? It had all seemed so real because it was real, Sherlock did mean it, he’d meant all of it. He was in love with him and John wondered why he had never seen that before. John was an idiot and he kept telling himself that. Sherlock just brought a hand up and ran it through his hair like he always used to. John leant into the touch. 

“… I know you have unpredictable tendencies... I know you only take time to notice things that you find interesting... You start things and if you decide they aren't working you break yourself off... ” John trembled with the power of his sobs, both hands coming up to cover his face. “And that night? On the couch with you wrapped around me and the Solar System in my hands... I suddenly realised that you get bored of things... And... And I thought that you would get bored of me... I didn’t want that to happen...” A kiss was placed on his temple, warm lips against his skin and a hand cupped his neck as he leant against his scarf. "I didn't want to see you fall out of love with me... The thought of it haunted me, and that doubt just kept growing... So I ran away before I actually had to witness it."

He let himself pull away from Sherlock and leant against the wall of the hallway. Gosh, he was such an idiot. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He slid down it, until he was seated on the ground and he brought his feet up against the opposite wall. Sherlock watched him the whole time.

"I was scared, Sherlock… You always thought my hands trembled because I wasn’t scared. They trembled because I was scared, not because I wasn't. I was in so, so deep…” John told him quietly, shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt something so intense for one person… And I don't know how I got there but... I ended up face-first, falling into you... And I was happy. You made me so, so happy. But I don't think I could've survived to watch you drift away from me..." 

He could feel Sherlock thinking, deducing everything that was and had just happened. How they’d both been so blind and stupidly in love that they’d never been able to notice that the other was in just as deep. They didn’t know, they doubted, they were unsure and they never sought answers in fear of the wrong one. John sighed, he was meant to be the one good at these things. Yet again, Sherlock had always gotten in the way of his love life. Sherlock slumped against the door, joining John on the ground. So they sat there, two men in a narrow hallway. 

"... Made...?” Sherlock asked softly.

“…  _Make_ ," John corrected himself with a bitter laugh, feet sliding down the wall. “You… You still make me so happy, Sherlock."

He felt more than heard Sherlock shuffled closer so they were seated next to each other. Now that was out of the way, it felt okay. The silence was no longer tense and more so comfortable, bearable. John finally felt at ease with himself. Sherlock placed his hand between them with a blush on his face, and John was a little puzzled at what to do. The red on Sherlock's face deepened as he gestured to his upturned palm before looking away. Then John knew exactly what to do, placing his own hand atop Sherlock’s and squeezing their fingers together. He saw Sherlock grinning out of the corner of his eye and in the heat of the moment, brought his legs on either side of his lap.

“We’re both idiots,” John whispered.

“I know,” Sherlock told him, pulling him closer by the waist. “I know."

It was there they stayed, sharing their unsaid words through kiss and touch. John felt Sherlock breathing deeply through his lips and John found himself breathing in time with him. He took Sherlock in, his eyes, his hair, the hands running over his waist, back and chest. John’s own hands ran over the contours of Sherlock’s face, his cheekbones, brows, jaw. He pulled away to breathe, but he’d only be granted a single breath before Sherlock claimed his lips once again.

_“I love you,”_  John murmured against Sherlock’s lips as they moved. _“I love you, I love you, I love you."_

John stopped Sherlock’s assault on his lips at some point by grasping his head with both hands, cradling it like the precious thing it was. They'd stayed there for ages, John was at a lost for how long exactly.  He grinned at Sherlock stupidly, and Sherlock grinned back despite the tears in their eyes. Sherlock stared up at him as if nothing else in the world existed, as if he were everything that existed. As if John were his universe. And before he could stop him, Sherlock pulled him back in for another kiss and John couldn’t think of any other place he would want to be. 


End file.
